A little stream of consciousness something I wrote when I went up to the mountain today. (its unedited – be warned – also I switch from past tense to present on purpose.)
It was a beautiful fall day here in Montreal. I hope this might interest somebody out there!
Fall is fragmented into good and bad. I went to the top of Mount Royal today. Two buses up and you’re there. I walked around the park in pleasant natural transcendence. Another word for this is ontological vertigo. I touched the seeds that were ready to take flight and felt a little pride in myself when re calling recently learned knowledge from my planting class. It was a pleasant afternoon, and my time spent up there felt longer then it really was. This could be due to the fact that its the first day of daylight savings. Another whole hour. In celebration I’m going to drink a bottle of wine tonight.
Up there, on the mountain I sat among the soil and watched the park light up with human interaction and infant ecstasy. I began to see things as they were. The gulls cried in terror and delight. The shrill tone disallows us from knowing which one. The air is fresh, carrying the scent of dead leaves and decomposing matter. The ground is now more textured and patterned then it will ever be, until this time again next year. 2017. A pair caresses one another, and dark clouds are fighting against the sun. Fragments of light making the canopy of trees morph into a cathedral. The simple act of walking, sitting, crisp apple biting into and fingering of soon to be shattered leaves.
The cold is near, and the humans come to the mountain for the same reasons the animals fur is beginning to thicken, and food is being stored underground. They do it to prolong the warmth while simultaneously bracing for bitter impact. The assembly line of humans is forming, of soon to be retreating souls, eyes turning inward. The winter is a call for self reflection, interior monologue and animation. Dislike the bears, we do not simply sleep off the winter in hibernation, in fact a new part of us becomes active. One we may have thought had gone dormant. We do not emerge into the spring the same as before. Our hair is different, our words. Transformation is a foot, like the new soil cooking, a whole one year older.
To this the gulls scream, children laugh, and the leaves continue to fall.